


Recycle

by Thighz



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Memories, implied Jack/Gabriel, old soldiers, past vincent/jack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-06
Updated: 2020-07-06
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:54:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25112710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thighz/pseuds/Thighz
Summary: The uniform used to represent everything he’d done, everything he could do, was going to do. It was his reward for leaving the earth scarred, for surviving invasive, illegal experimentation, for leading the world’s largest organization of ‘heroes’.It hadn’t been designed for combat, but he always felt like he was going back to war when he put it on.
Relationships: Reaper | Gabriel Reyes/Soldier: 76 | Jack Morrison
Comments: 2
Kudos: 51





	Recycle

**Author's Note:**

> This was my short piece for the Hero | Soldier 76 charity zine!
> 
> I really loved Jack in his dress blues, but I also wanted him to be sad about it too.
> 
> _Enjoy_

**Recycle**

The cuffs of Jack’s starched sleeves brush against the back of his pinky as he slips on the last white glove. It pulls tight over the tips of his fingers, shielding the scarred skin of his hands from the numerous handshakes he’s sure to receive in the coming hours. No one wants to feel the calloused, gun worn bumps on his palms or see the remnants of war on their leaders flesh.

He has to look and be the future of a blossoming organization. From the tip of his shiny, black formal boots, to the officer cap situated over the fresh cut of his hair.

Jack makes a fist with the gloves on, satisfied with the bend at his knuckles. At least he’ll still be able to cradle a glass of champagne while people crowd around him. Multiples, if he can sneak around Ana’s hawke-eyed stare.

There’s no telling how long the evening will last and Jack will need all the liquid courage he can get to navigate it without choking on his own tongue.

He lifts his gaze to the floor length mirror on the opposite side of the dressing room and doesn’t recognize the man staring back at him.

Gone are the ripped, muddy digis and the heavy gear. His face is clean, no streaks of dirt or blood, no bruised eyes from days without sleep. Every inch of him is covered in dark blue and gold, medals shimmering over his right pectoral, buttons gleaming with a fresh shine. His name rests on the left side, bright gold stitching and a little pocket beneath it, heavy with the weight of what it carries.

It’s probably the heaviest thing on Jack’s body.

A photograph and a triple folded letter wrinkled from a white-fingered, trembling grip. Black ink smeared with the tears Jack couldn’t hold back.

He knows he’ll never have to take the letter out to read it again. The words are going to be burned into his brain for a long, long time.

_ I’m sorry, Jack. I can’t do this anymore. _

That’s only a quarter of what was actually said. Vincent was a rambler when it came to his emotions. He was also blunt, honest, and Jack had been looking forward to spending the rest of his life with him.

The letter burning a hole in his breast pocket tells him that’s not an option any longer.

And Jack is too worn down by war and duty to fight it.

“Hey, you ready?”

Jack’s shoulders relax at the sound of Gabe’s voice.

The tight, tremulous ache inside his chest eases as his best friend's visage joins his own in the mirror.

Gabriel looks dashing and handsome in his own dress blues. He’s trimmed up his beard, it was once thick and full around the circumference of his face. Jack kind of misses it.

He doesn’t miss the gunfire, the whirling sound of incoming omnics, or the death of his friends. But he does miss the warmth of Gabriel at his back, the familiar scratch of an unkempt beard, the lulling honey of his voice as they talked for hours about anything but the war raging on around them.

What they would do when it was all over. Where they would go. Who they would love.

Neither of them expected medals and red stamped files forbidding them from answering questions about the toxic chemicals that helped them survive.

“Your tie is crooked.” Gabriel grumbles, tapping Jack’s shoulder.

Jack twists around to face him, skin warming as Gabriel’s own gloved hands set about adjusting the blue silk of his tie.

He smells like smoky cologne and the tingle of champagne, the sneaky bastard.

“Nervous?” Gabriel asks.

“They want me to give speeches about future heroes and sacrifice.” Jack sighs, “Nothing we did out there makes us heroes.”

Gabe’s fingers pause, eyes narrowed as he peers up at Jack, “You really think that?”

“I think they’re going to blueball us even if we try to make the world a better place. Heroes is just a fancy way to spin it.” Jack murmurs.

“You’re good with people, Jack. You  _ are _ going to make the world a better place.” Gabe hisses.

“We.” Jack corrects, “We. You, me, Ana.  _ We _ are going to do this together.” He glances over at the mirror, lips ticking up in a grin at the renewed life of his tie, “I can’t do any of this without the two of you.”

Gabriel smiles, rugged and handsome and blinding.

“Come on, big guy.” Gabriel slaps him on the shoulder, “Let’s go show off our fancy duds. We just saved the world!”

The weight of the letter in Jack’s pocket lifts just a little.

  
  


-

  
  


Jack hates how his fingers tremble over the faded, dusty blue fabric.

The buttons have lost their shine, his medals are useless echoes, the gloves are stained yellow with age. It hangs in a crumpled dress bag off the back of a chair in a room he hasn’t called his own in years. The pants are bunched up against the floor, the tie is missing.

A bottle of amber liquor rests against his knee, half empty and illuminated by the moonlight pooling from a broken window behind him. His throat still burns from the last sip he took. His chest burns with something else.

He traces each letter of his last name individually. The stitches are rough and frayed.

The pocket beneath it is already open. He dips his fingers under the lip, finding the bump of paper inside, and tugging it out between his fingertips.

He can’t look at the photograph yet, so he tucks it inside the inner pocket of the jacket he’s currently wearing. It joins the collection of his past, all safely resting against his heart.

He puts the old, wrinkled paper back inside the coat pocket and slides the button back into place.

He gives it a final, stern pat.

Jack wraps a fist around the neck of the bottle, liquid sloshing with the movement as he brings it to his lips for one last sip.

Then, he upends the rest of it above the old uniform.

It soaks into the fabric, staining the white, pooling onto the floor around the pants. The smell of it is strong and stings Jack’s nose, but he knows it’s only about to smell worse.

He picks up the silver lighter on the floor where the bottle once rested, flips it open and closed, open and closed.

The uniform used to represent everything he’d done, everything he could do, was going to do. It was his reward for leaving the earth scarred, for surviving invasive, illegal experimentation, for leading the world’s largest organization of ‘heroes’.

It hadn’t been designed for combat, but he always felt like he was going back to war when he put it on.

Now, it’s nothing more than a heap of fabric tying him to his own disgrace.

His thumb rolls down the mechanism, flame bouncing to life with a soft click. 

He hates how his hand still shakes as he drags the flame along the bourbon soaked sections of the cloth. As though it’s reluctant to let go of this last thing holding him back. This silly, sentimental hunk of fabric.

But it’s tied to memories Jack needs to burn away.

The faded letter in its pocket. Confident hands always adjusting the tie, fingers brushing the skin of his neck, the smell of smoke. Those same hands stripping it away at the end of long, emotionally draining days.

Jack’s eyes burn as the flames eat away at it.

It could be the heat from sitting so close or the overwhelming stench of booze and burnt cotton.

But as a single, hot tear slides over the rise of his cheek; Jack knows better.

He could burn everything he’s ever owned and still not be free.

  
  


End

  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on twitter @gabrielsthighz!!
> 
> Thank you for your continued support, comments, and kudos!


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